


Before the Prairie -- The MacGowans

by mmmuse, rainpuddle13



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmuse/pseuds/mmmuse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainpuddle13/pseuds/rainpuddle13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Richard and Helen MacGowan and their journey to St Joseph, MO to head west with the Poldark-Enys wagon train. Companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6492478/chapters/14861215">The Prairie</a> by mmmuse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> What started out as musings between my fic buddy and beta rainpuddle13 has now become fleshed out into its own novella, so to speak. These two become very close to Ross and Demelza as they make their way to the Washington Territory. We hope you enjoy this little diversion to learn more about some of the characters lives before The Prairie.
> 
> mmmuse will write Richard's POV and rainpuddle13 will write Helen's. We're betaing one another's stuff, so there could be some mistakes. Bear with us as we embark on this experiment.

Helen Robertson carried the tea tray into the parlour of her Aunt Catherine’s home and set it on the table. She looked up at the tall, fine-looking man standing at the window overlooking the garden and cleared her throat to catch his attention. “Tea is ready, Richard,” she said with a soft, musical voice belonging to a woman from the Lowlands of Scotland. He turned, smiling at her before sitting beside her.

Richard MacGowan had been her brother’s best friend from childhood, and had sworn to see after his sister’s well-being should anything ever happen to him. Promises made when they’d both been invincible young men of eighteen, little knowing that pledge would become a reality sixteen years later. A bull had gored William nearly six months before, and these Sunday afternoons hadn’t gotten any less awkward since his passing.

Richard would see her to her aunt’s home after church services. He would stay for a cup of tea, ask after her well-being, inform her of the state of the family home, and after two ginger biscuits he would take his leave. She would always send a packet of biscuits home with him for his young son.

“Campbell has been over again, inquiring about the land,” he informed her, nodding when she offered to pour him a cup of tea. She knew he always drank it straight.

She sighed as she dropped sugar into her own tea. “He’s rather persistent, isn’t he?”

“Aye, that he is,” he answered, clearly uncomfortable. “This time he inquired about your hand.”

“No,” Helen gasped, horrified at the thought of being tied to a man as awful as Duncan Campbell. She knew how he treated his animals so she had a fair idea how he’d treat a wife. It was not good.

“I told him now was not the time to be discussing such things with you still in mourning.” He glanced down at his tea as he took a sip. She knew how much Richard hated to mention anything that might upset her. She wished he realized she was more resilient than she looked.

“That is true.” She idly toyed with the lace at the cuff of the sleeve of the dowdy black dress she wore. She hated wearing black, and she’d worn so much of it the last few years of her life. “Regardless, I will not marry him,” Helen said resolutely.

Richard nodded his agreement. “Of course not.”

“I plan to start making inquiries into employment as a governess or a nanny soon.” She had her doubts about her employability, but she had to try. There simply was no other option for a woman in her position without a male relative to see to her welfare, with very little money, and no prospect of a husband. “Or maybe I could find a position as a companion to a lady who travelled frequently,” she said wistfully.

Richard shook his head as he reached for a third biscuit. “There’s no point in dreaming about unlikely things.”

Her fingers tightened in her lap; his words hitting a little too close for comfort. Once upon a time she’d harboured dreams of marrying the handsome smithy’s son who was best friends with her brother right up until he married Joan MacCollum. She’d put away those dreams once he was out of reach and went on with her life. Now here they were, having tea each Sunday afternoon out of obligation, him a widower and she, a woman past her prime according to polite society. Life certainly wasn’t fair.

“No need to worry,” Helen assured him. “I’ve long given up on dreams.”

“I haven’t,” Richard said very earnestly, sliding up to the sit on the edge of the settee.

“You haven’t?” She tried to keep her face impassive, but this was most animated she’d seen him since the visitations began.

“I’ve had a letter from my brother in America,” he continued, his soft, sky-blue eyes sparkling with vitality. “He said there’s plenty of land and work for men willing to make a go of things.”

Helen knew that the promise of a better life across the ocean had been draining Scotland of her men and families for years, and a knot suddenly formed in the pit of her stomach. “Oh?”

“Yes,” he said with a little nod. “Arthur has asked me to come join out in the Washington Territory. He’s says it’s lush and green with black fertile soil and clear cold streams of water. There are so many salmon in the rivers they practically leap out of the water!”

“It sounds like Eden on earth.”

“That’s what Arthur calls it!” Richard laughed and she was dazzled by his smile. It had been a long time since she’d seen it grace his face. “He says it’s a long and hard journey all the way out there, but he assures me it’s worth it.”

“Th-then you should go,” she gave him a little nod of approval, “for Glenn. He deserves a better life than he’s likely to find here.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” he said in agreement. “There’s nothing here but hard work to eek out a living or joining the British Army to be sent to India.”

“Yes,” she said carefully, “and that would be dreadful.” She met his gaze, held them for several moments. “When do you expect to depart for America?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he ducked his head, eyes back on his tea cup. “I need to inquire about a few things before I can start fixing dates.”

“Please let me know if I can be of any assistance to you,” she offered, unsure of what she could do for him, but it was the polite to make the offer nevertheless.

“Actually, you can.” He looked up then, grim determination written plainly on his face, and it made her nervous.

“And what might that be?” She smiled faintly back at him.

“Go with us,” he whispered.

She blinked, and then stared at him. She _couldn’t_ have heard him correctly. “Go with you?”

“Yes,” he nodded, setting his teacup and saucer down with a clatter. “Go with us to America, start over, and forget this God forsaken place.”

Helen could feel all of the colour drain from her cheeks and her heart stop beating in her chest. _Leave_ Scotland? She’d never given it any thought until that moment and she found it terrifying. “I couldn’t.”

“You can,” he insisted, shifting on the settee to sit within reach of her, their knees almost touching.

“How?” She was still boggled at the notion. She glanced down, studying his hands as they lay atop his knees, mere inches from hers. They were large and scarred from his labours, the left bearing what appeared to be a fresh burn across its top. She wondered what it would feel like to have him touch her own. This madness he proposed, it had blown some of the dust off of the dreams she’d once had for him to be hers, dreams she’d formed by the time she was a wee lass of ten or eleven. She returned her gaze to meet his. “I don’t understand, Richard. How?”

“Marry me,” he urged, and she could see the flame of the idea starting to burn in his blue eyes. “After your mourning period is over, of course. Glenn is still of an age where he needs a mother. Then I wouldn’t be leaving you here to the wolves.”

“B-but Richard,” she said, “your wife—” She swallowed, her mind racing. “Joan has only been gone for nine months. You’re still in mourning, will be for another year. What will people say?”

“I don’t really give a damn what they have to say, Helen,” he said wryly, a smile creasing the right side of his face under his well-kept beard.

Her breath caught in her throat, quite certain she must have been dreaming the entire encounter. “I-I’m not sure what to s-say,” she stuttered.

“Say you’ll at least give the idea some thought?” he asked, reaching across their laps to clasp her petite hands in his. Roughened by years of hard labour at the forge, they were warm and dry against hers. “Please.”

She found herself nodding as her mind started to come to terms with the turn of their conversation. She’d always been the dutiful daughter, the loyal sister, always putting others before herself. Just this once she wanted to be frivolous, do the unexpected, and have an adventure. “Yes.”

“Yes?” he queried expectantly. “Yes, you’ll marry me or yes, you’ll think about it?”

Helen took a deep breath, and smiled brightly, eyes brimming with tears. “Yes, Richard, I’ll marry you.”


	2. Handfasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Richard and Helen MacGowan and their journey to St Joseph, MO to head west with the Poldark-Enys wagon train. Companion piece to [The Prairie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6492478/chapters/14861215) by mmmuse

“What do you mean you’re marrying the Robertson lass?” Duncan Campbell boomed. His face was mottled with fury as he slammed his fist down onto Richard’s desk.

Richard looked at the man who was almost old enough to be his father and took another sip of his whisky. “That I am, Campbell…that I am. And very soon, as a matter of fact.” He rose from his seat and walked over to the window to take pleasure in the sun’s setting light.

“The only reason why you’re marrying her is to get your hands on her lands, MacGowan,” Campbell groused, the jowls along his jawline quivering on the last syllable of Richard’s name.

“As was your intention not more than three days ago, you said it yourself,” Richard pointed out. “If it is of any comfort, the lands you’ve been so desperate to get your hands upon will go up to auction the day following the wedding.” He held the man’s glare with one of his own. “If you want the land you’ll have to open your wallet and pay for it.”

Campbell took a step towards him, and the smell of stale sweat and ale rose up rank and fetid in Richard’s nostrils. “Your own wife Joan barely cold in her grave,” he sneered, “and you’ve the nerve to be sniffing around Helen Robertson’s leathery quim, do you?”

Black fury roared through Richard’s veins as his hands reached for the front of the Campbell’s shirt and brought the despicable man up onto his toes. “Get out,” he hissed, “before I thrash the life out of you, you miserable old bassa!” He stalked over to the door, wrenched it open and threw Campbell bodily over the threshold into the dusty yard.

Richard watched as Campbell scrambled to his feet, shouting obscenities harsh enough to make a whore blush, slapped his hat on and stormed off of the property. Richard heaved a sigh of relief and looked down at his shaking hands. He had his father’s hands, large and strong, the perfect hands to be a smithy. He’d taken to it very quickly, proving his competency twice as fast as wee Ian Duncan, the other apprentice they kept. When the time had come for Richard to take over the business, Ian had stayed to become his trusted friend and partner, and it would be he who Richard left in charge of the forge when he left.

Ian was in the forge, completing a gate they’d promised to Hugh MacDonald by the end of the day. Simple finishing work that Ian was glad to wrap up so Richard could finish the bookkeeping in the office. Granted, the word “office” went a might far when describing the small side room next to the forge, but it served the general purpose for keeping his business affairs in order as best as he could since Joan’s passing. Her cheerful willingness to keep the books for their family’s trade was one of the things he’d cherished about his relationship with his late wife, and he’d done a fairly dismal job of keeping things straight since then. 

He wondered if Helen might be interested in trying her hand at the task, then chided himself. He mustn’t assume that Helen would even want to do such a thing.

The rumours were spreading around the glen faster than he’d anticipated. He’d known the decision was a scandalous one, but some of the comments he’d heard thus far had nearly made him lose his temper twice. It was true that he was marrying again, less than a year after his much beloved bride, Joan, had died in childbirth, taking their wee daughter Irene with her to join the angels. And he’d mourned for her, hollow and empty for months, merely going through the motions of living for his son’s sake, not his own. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d missed her desperately, from the tinkling laughter he’d hear from her when she played with Glenn, the way the sun had shone on her sunny blond hair, and the feel of her lying next to him, under him, in their bed. It was true, he’d offered his hand to Helen Robertson because he knew his son was in need of a mother to care for him, as did she. But Richard acknowledged he needed a wife not only to help him raise his son to manhood, but to care for their home, and to save him from the loneliness that threatened to consume him.

Attempting to find a vicar willing to even consider marrying them, given the unusual situation facing them, had been a fruitless venture, unless he was willing to pay old Reverend Ross from Rutherglen – so many miles away – a king’s ransom to look the other way to do so. They could always do what the English did and make a trip down to Gretna Green, where the people down there were used to handling irregular marriages, but the logistics of managing the trip – what with his eleven year old son to be left behind or, God forbid, accompany them on their wedding night – was beyond his ken. 

But handfasting…the idea had come to him in his sleep the night before. It was something only requiring a witness or two, would be considered legal and binding and could be done without delay. Would it be something he could convince Helen to consider? It would allow them to leave for America much sooner than he’d originally planned, which would put them in a better position to reach St Joseph, Missouri in time for an early spring departure. They could be in Washington and settled before the snow fell. 

He looked at his mantel clock and turned the sign indicating he was open for business to its opposite side and hung up his apron. It was time to smarten himself up and go consult with his fiancée. 

Forty minutes later, he was looking at the back of the small, auburn-haired woman he’d asked to become his wife not more than forty-eight hours before. Her hair was tucked up in its customary bun, but he noticed the two whorls of baby-fine hairs that curled along either side of her spine to her nape. One of the tendrils was caught in the curl of the other and he found himself raising his hand to brush it free. A surge of need rushed through him and brought him up short mere inches from the curve of her shoulder. 

He took a step back and cleared his throat so that when she turned she would not find him looming over her, but as he did so his mind registered that her hair had smelled of thyme and rosemary. “Helen,” he said softly as she turned to stare up at him with those deep-set blue eyes. “What are your thoughts?”

“So we would be handfasted tomorrow?” she murmured, swallowing as she twisted her fingers in her apron. 

“Yes, hen,” he confirmed, reaching for one of her hands. Her eyes had flashed up to his at the use of the endearment, and he found himself enchanted by the blush that stained her cheeks. Her fingers were cold and trembling in his. “What is troubling you?”

“Oh, any number of things, Richard,” she said, before removing her hand. It was clear she was uncomfortable with his familiarity. It was something he hoped would dissipate before tomorrow night, then castigated himself for even thinking about it. “The rumours, the scandal. And Glenn.” She paused before shifting her gaze to a point somewhere near his throat. “What have you told him about all of this?”

Richard bit the inside of his bottom lip, pondering his response. The boy had been excited about the prospect of going on this adventure to America when Richard first proposed it a week ago. While he was still young yet, he knew well enough about the events taking place in the world, and how so many of his friends’ brothers had been conscripted into the British Army and sent to God only knew where. But when Richard had informed his son of his intention to marry Mistress Helen Robertson the boy had gaped up at him in horror. Glenn had been very close with his late mother, being the only child, and had suffered greatly upon her passing. 

He remembered Glenn’s tortured words at the news of the impending marriage before he stormed out of the house: “What do we need her for, Da? I don’t need another mother! She’ll never be my mother!” Richard glanced down at Helen and knew he owed her the truth. “He was quite upset.”

“Then, perhaps we should wait for a while, to give him time to come to terms with it,” Helen implored. 

Richard shook his head. “It will take some time to make arrangements to sell the property and animals, for both of us. And I will not be able to make any plans for the disposition of your holdings until we are wed. And we must leave for America soon if we hope to arrive at the jumping off point in time for an early spring departure.” His heart twisted at the look of concern on her face and, as much as he knew it might make her flinch, he laid his hand on her shoulder and felt the shock course through her at the touch. “Helen, I know you must be overwhelmed with the events of the last forty-eight hours. T’was my own idea, and I admit to being a bit rattled myself.” He smiled down at her and was pleased to see the corner of her mouth twitch up. “I know this is all happening very quickly, but we’ll sort it out, together, alright?”

She nodded and his eyes were drawn to her mouth. It was wide, her lips full and naturally the colour of roses in bloom and he’d known it split into a smile of generous mirth and delight. He was surprised to find he’d never thought of them in such poetic terms until that moment and wondered how they would feel under his own. She licked her lips and Richard’s eyes shot to the sight of her small pink tongue and barely restrained himself from kissing the life out of her. But no, he’d wait until they were properly married before he did so. “Now, who would you like to have present for the handfasting, hen?” he asked, his voice gone husky for the moment.

“My Auntie Catherine should be there,” Helen said softly. “Do you plan for Glenn to be there, too?”

Richard took a deep breath. “I do, as long as he minds his manners. I’d planned for Ian to stand as witness for me.” He ran his hands down her shoulders to gather her hands in his own. “Will half past four work for you?”

“Yes, Richard,” she murmured, licking her lips once again.

Tomorrow be damned. “Helen,” he said, the timbre of his voice deepening. “Might I kiss you?” Colour flooded her cheeks once again as her eyes widened with shock at the request. She gave him the briefest of nods and he lowered his head to hers. She tasted of the strawberry jam they’d had with their scones when he’d first arrived. Her lips were as soft and full as he’d hoped, pliable but pressed tightly closed. He wondered if this was the first time she’d ever been kissed, and the importance of the moment made him mindful of frightening her by moving closer, becoming more insistent. He raised his head and brushed her lips with his one last time before leaning back and cupping her cheek in his palm. “Thank you, hen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bassa = Bastard and Hen is an endearment, not a chicken. :-) 
> 
> Thanks to those of you who have left kudos and comments! Rainpuddle13 and I really appreciate them!


	3. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Richard and Helen MacGowan and their journey to St Joseph, MO to head west with the Poldark-Enys wagon train. Companion piece to [The Prairie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6492478/chapters/14861215) by mmmuse

“It’s just not done,” her aunt clucked while tucking little white sprigs of heather in Helen’s hair.  She’d been daydreaming about the very brief kiss Richard had given her before taking his leave the previous evening. Her lips still tingled at the thought. “It’s not proper.  He’d wait if he were a decent man.”

She watched her aunt shake her head in the mirror on the dressing table. “There isn’t time if we want to make the trip west early in the spring. Richard is very eager to reach his brother.”

“Joanie’s not even in the ground a year,” the old woman continued undeterred by anything Helen had to say. “It isn’t proper. People are going to talk.”

They already  _ were _ talking, and it didn’t take long for word to get around that Richard MacGowan had said damn to propriety and asked her to marry him not even a year after his wife’s death. Helen knew exactly what they were saying since some of the ladies of the district didn’t bother with whispering. Apparently her child was due at any moment.

“I won’t be here much longer to hear it, Auntie,” Helen said, forcing a smile as she patted her aunt’s hand resting on her shoulder.

The older woman was still frowning. “He shouldn’t put you in this position, dear. Reputation doesn’t mean much to a man, but it’s all a woman has, and he’s damaged yours beyond repair I fear.” She clucked her tongue once again and it made Helen want to scream. “I’m not surprised he couldn’t find a vicar willing to marry you.”

Finding a clergyman willing to overlook the situation had been nearly impossible, but Richard had proven resourceful in the face of adversity with the suggestion they handfast.  A simple ceremony where two people agreed to be husband and wife in front of a few witnesses.  While it was frowned upon by polite society, it was still as binding as a church marriage once consummated.  No doubt it would add fuel to the already raging fires of the rumor mill, but there was little she could do about it now. “No one will know or care where we’re going,” Helen said for the umpteenth time since accepting the proposal, more for Aunt Catherine’s sake, but also maybe a little for her own.

“You do not have to go through with this, my dear,” her aunt urged, as if she could read Helen’s mind. “He’s just wanting a woman to keep his house and warm his bed. That’s all men want. You deserve better.”

Just hearing her aunt continue to harp on about Richard only wanting her for his bed dread in the pit of her stomach start to churn. It had been a constant refrain since he proposed marriage. It seemed to Helen that Catherine had almost taken delight in trying to scare her about the evils of men. “Rutting pigs” was how men had been described to her, always after a woman, wanting to do vile things, never leaving her alone until they got what they wanted. It was just best to let them have their way while praying they grew bored and shifted their attentions elsewhere. Helen did have vague recollections of her cantankerous uncle, and wasn’t all that surprised that her aunt thought to save her from the same fate.  

Truth be told, Helen was rather concerned about what was to come later when she was finally alone with her new husband.  The marriage would not be considered valid until it was fully consummated, and it was of utmost importance for it be considered legal since it was irregular. She knew the mechanics of what that entailed, thanks to her aunt, but it only exacerbated the fears she already had about what transpired between a man and a woman since she had very little practical experience. She’d just have to put her faith in Richard and hope for the best. He’d been nothing short of kind and gentle with her during their very short courtship.

Helen adjusted the lace ruff at the neckline of the French blue sprigged dress she wore, her favorite because she thought it brought out her eyes. It also showed of just the barest hint of cleavage, making her feel a bit daring after months of wearing plain high neck black dresses. There had been no time for a proper wedding dress, and besides it was an expense she couldn’t justify for a marriage of convenience.  She held no silly romantic illusions that she might have were she younger. There was no love between them, just familiarity and necessity. It was enough for now Helen hoped.  “I promised, Auntie, and I will not break my word,” she said with a tone of finality.

“There are prospects here,” Catherine said hurriedly as a knock sounded at the door downstairs. “That’ll be him. I can send him away.”

“No,” she said, standing and brushing the wrinkles from her skirt. Helen had idea who these prospects might be that her aunt spoke of, but she knew none of them would be better than Richard. At least he was still young and handsome unlike the old man Campbell who’d been after her for years.. “I’ll be down shortly.”

Catherine looked like she wanted to say more, but decided to keep her own counsel, and left Helen in peace for a few moments to see to the guests at the door. She used the time to gather her brush and comb to tuck away in the small case sitting on the foot of the narrow bed. Her trunk would be sent over later once things were finalized.  It was difficult not to feel ill-prepared going into her marriage with little in the way of things that a bride would bring to her new household, but she had to keep reminding herself that she would have no need of those things because she was going to an already established home.

Richard met her at the foot of the stairs when she made her way down, looking handsome in his simple black suit and cravat. He’d taken the time to trim his beard and club back his long brown hair.  He’d worn his hair long through all of the years she’d known him. It was out of fashion by current standards, but she was quickly learning her husband-to-be did not hesitate to say the hell with everyone and do as he pleased.  “You look lovely, Helen,” he said, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over her form as he took her hand to help with the last step, brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

“Thank you,” she said shyly, feeling her cheeks starting to burn as she dropped her gaze, finding she rather liked the tickling feel of his whiskers against her skin.  _ Fate was a most cruel mistress, _ Helen thought to herself.  Here she was finally getting the man she’d always wanted, but only out of a sense of obligation, not because he wanted her.

“Not having second thoughts are you?” Richard asked.

She swallowed hard, shaking her head slightly, her voice surprisingly steady when she answered, “No.”  In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Good,” he murmured, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm to lead her into the sitting room where the few witnesses to their nuptials had gathered. “You remember my business partner, Ian Duncan?”

“Miss Robertson,” Ian said with a friendly smile, bowing.

“Of course,” she answered politely, with a slight nod, “please, call me Helen.”

“Richard’s a lucky man I hadn’t seen you first, Helen,” Ian said with a wink.

“And you remember my son Glenn,” Richard continued on, raising an eyebrow at his partner.

“Yes, I do. Quite well,” she said, mustering a smile, despite the stoney glare the young boy was giving her. Helen remembered when Glenn was full of laughter and joy, but that was before his mother died. She didn’t know what to make of the sullen, angry child standing before her.

“Glenn,” Richard prompted, his voice thick with warning.

“Afternoon, Miss Helen,” the boy said politely, yet grudgingly.

“Glenn,” she answered back, using every ounce of strength she had to refrain from pulling him into her arms and telling him everything would eventually be alright. She was quite sure her gesture would not be welcomed.  “I made sure we’d have ginger biscuits with tea this afternoon. You father tells me they’re your favorite.”

“Not no more,” he assured her, crossing his arms and narrowing his grey eyes.

Kenneth Murray stepped forward to save her from having to respond to Glenn and cutting off Richard’s response to the boy’s impertence. “Helen,” he said kindly, taking her hand and nodding his head to her, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Mr Murray,” Helen said, surprised. He was an old family friend and an elder at the kirk. She’d known him since was just a wee lassie. “What are you doing here?”

He grinned, giving Richard a quick side glance. “Your gentleman here explained the situation to me.  I offered to help with the handfasting.”

“I-I don’t know what to say,” she stammered. Her throat felt tight as tears sprang unbidden to trace down her cheek.

“I’m happy to do it,” Kenneth assured her.  “It’s the least I could do for your father, seeing his only daughter safely married to a good man.”

“Thank you.”  She gratefully took the handkerchief that Richard offered to her so she could dab her eyes dry. “It means the world to me, Mr Murray.”

“Would you like a few minutes, hen?” her fiance asked, concern for her well-being evident in his eyes.

“No,” she gave him a watery smile, “no, I don’t think I want to wait.”

Kenneth started without preamble once they’d taken their places near the fireplace, his voice wobbling with old age as he spoke the words: “Do you, Richard, take Helen to be your wife? To love her without reservation, honor her, protect her and your bairns from harm, comfort her, and to grow with her in mind and spirit?”

“I do,” Richard agree readily, and slipped a thin ring of gold Ian handed to him on her wedding finger and gave her small hand a gentle squeeze with his much larger, calloused ones.

“Do you, Helen, take Richard to be your husband? To love him without reservation, respect and obey him, comfort him, bear his children, and to grow with him in mind and spirit?” Kenneth continued.

Helen couldn’t tear her eyes from Richard’s face, nodding as she answered firmly, “Yes, yes I do.”

“Richard and Helen,” Kenneth addressed them both as he bound their left hands together with a long strip of MacGowan tartan, “this cloth is a symbol of the lives you have chosen to lead together. Up until this moment, you have been separate in thought, word and action. As your hands are bound together by this plaid, so too, shall your lives be bound as one. May you be forever be one, sharing in all things, in love and loyalty for all time to come.”

Ian raised a quaich filled with whisky first to Richard to sip from then to her, reciting the ancient marriage blessing: _“Míle faílte dhuit le d'bhreíd, Fad do ré gun robh thu slán. Móran laíthean dhuit is síth, Le d'mhaitheas is le d'ní bhi fás.”_

“Go on, laddie,” Kenneth urged with a laugh, “kiss your bride.”

Richard gave her a little smile as he lowered his head to seal their marriage with the traditional kiss.  She was prepared this time, or so she thought until his mouth captured hers in a gentle kiss, causing her to softly moan as a shiver of something unexplainable raced through her veins.  He caught her around the waist with his free hand, holding her against him when her knees threatened to give out as he deepened the kiss, releasing her only after Ian cleared his throat

“Oh,” she gasped, eyes fluttering open to look at her new husband to see that he was not unaffected either.  Something between them had just shifted. Helen wasn’t sure what it meant, but it had to be for the better.  The nerves that had plagued her from the moment he’d rashly asked her to marry him had suddenly dissipated.

“Aye,” Richard agreed with her assessment and kissed her again before accepting the hearty congratulations of their small gathering of guests.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(English Translation of blessing)_
> 
>  
> 
> _A thousand welcomes to you with your marriage. May you be healthy all your days. May you be blessed with long life and peace, may you grow old with goodness, and with riches._
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments and kudos! It means the world to us. Time for me to get into Richard's skin and write the wedding night.... wish me luck!
> 
> Meanwhile, for those of you wondering what's going on with The Prairie, I am going through the next chapter of Prairie now, to send it along for beta, so I should have an update for that very soon. 
> 
> Take care!


	4. Welcome Home, Helen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Richard and Helen MacGowan and their journey to St Joseph, MO to head west with the Poldark-Enys wagon train. Companion piece to [The Prairie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6492478/chapters/14861215) by mmmuse

Richard glanced at his bride and frowned. She sat stiff and silent as he turned their wagon onto the road towards their home and had been since leaving her aunt’s. He could feel the tension she experienced coming off of her in waves. He shifted closer, only to have her jump when his hip touched hers. She glanced up into his eyes, hers near black as her cheeks paled.

He gritted his teeth. Enough was enough. “Helen, can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked softly, taking a quick glance in the back where Glenn crouched, morose and silent. “Are you already regretting this?” He reached out his right hand to cover her left, his thumb brushing against the slight rise the gold band he’d placed on her ring finger less than two hours before made through her gloves.

“N-No, Richard,” she assured, her voice barely audible from the sound of the horse’s hooves on the track. “I find I am a wee bit nervous, ‘tis all.”

He wove his fingers with hers and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he said, and was pleased to see a glimpse of the inquisitiveness he’d always appreciated about her personality come through. “So am I.” She gave him quick smile, her eyes brightening before her russet lashes swept down to hide them from him again. But she squeezed his hand in response, and that made him feel a bit better.

He thought of the home he had to offer her, which had just appeared from around an outcrop of oak trees. It was a simple place, one of the only houses in the district with slate shingles rather than thatch, which was safer being so close to the smithy’s shop. Three bedrooms with a small kitchen and parlour, it was all he’d known from the time he was born. He hoped Helen would find it comfortable for the few weeks they would have to be there before they left for America.

Sheila, the horse, sensing home, pulled at the traces and picked up her pace. Richard eased on the reins to save her mouth and smiled as her ears pricked forward and her gait lightened with pleasure. They swung into the yard and, seconds later, came to a stop in front of the house. “Welcome home, Helen,” Richard said gently, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Thank you, Richard,” she murmured. She smelled of rosemary once again, and he found it at turns homey and arousing. _Jesus, MacGowan,_ he thought to himself, _give the woman a chance to get out of the carriage and inspect her new domicile before you try to get under her skirts._

He hopped down out of the seat and made his way to the other side to help her down. He accounted for his feelings of…anticipation – _yes,_ he thought to himself, _that’s what I’ll call it_ – to the fact that he’d always been an ardent sort, and that he and Joan had had a relatively pleasant marital relationship, if not one overwrought with passion. He hoped he and Helen might find themselves to be compatible, and if the shivering response he’d felt when he’d kissed her were any indication, he looked forward to uncovering the secrets she held hidden behind her truly beautiful blue eyes.

He lifted his hands to grasp her around the waist. His fingers flexed against her corseted waist as he swung her down from the wagon and she let out the most delightful giggle he’d ever heard from her. It was a trilling little laugh, like something one would hear from a songbird, and he instantly wished to hear it again. “Helen!” he exclaimed, unable to keep his surprise and pleasure at her smile to himself. “You have the most bonny wee laugh, hen.”

“You lifted me from the wagon as if I weighed no more than a feather, Richard!” she said, giggling. There it was again, and he felt it like a caress down his spine. Her cheeks pinkened under his gaze and she raised her gloved hands to cover her cheeks.

“Oh, dinna hide your cheeks, lass,” he chided softly, stepping closer and raising his own hands to brush her jaw with his thumbs. “Your laugh isn’t the only thing to delight me this day.” He leaned down to catch her startled mouth against his own and felt her shivery moan against his tongue as it touched hers for the first time. Her fingers, now caught against him, flexed against his chest and she stood on tiptoe to nestle closer.

He heard a harsh cough. Richard lifted his head to see his son standing no more than a few feet behind his wife, glowering at him over Helen’s head, tears sparkling in his eyes. “Shite,” he muttered. Helen spun until her back pressed up and touching his chest, the soft curves of her buttocks crowding against his groin. He forced himself to ignore the sensation and fixed his gaze on his son. “Glenn, I’m s—”

“Just shut up, shut up!” the boy shouted. “I’ve heard enough of the gossip from town about you and her,” he spat, his eyes now burning with hate as they met Helen’s. “How she must have tricked you into her bed so you had to marry her because she’s nothing but a disgraced whor—”

The crack of Richard’s palm slapping his son’s face echoed in the driveway in front of the house. He paled, his hand stinging from the contact. Glenn, too, had turned white except for the outline of his father’s fingers against his cheek. He let out a sob, whirled on his heel and ran off towards the barn.

Richard turned to see Helen, crimson faced, her eyes following her new stepson with what looked like equal parts horror, shame and – not surprisingly – empathy. She’d always had a soft spot for Glenn, especially following Joan’s death and it was that care for the lad that had been the thing that had tipped the scales in his decision to marry her.

“Helen, I’m sorry he spoke of you so foully.” He gathered her against him, his eyes cast in the direction of the barn, fury and disappointment warring within him. “His mother and I didn’t raise him to behave that way,” he continued absently until he looked down at her face, and saw how she’d closed herself off from him, and he realized he’d referred to Joan. He’d noticed how she would tend to distance herself from him the instant he made any kind of comment about his late wife. He hadn’t had a chance to ask her about it, but figured now was not the best time to do so. “Let me take you into the house and get your things brought in. Then I must go see to Glenn.”

She shook her head. “No, Richard,” she said, her voice barely audible. “My things will keep. Your son will not.” She gave his arm a squeeze and, gathering her purse from the front seat, made her way towards the house.

He followed her and touched her shoulder. “I’ll not be cheated of carrying you over the threshold, hen,” he declared softly and scooped her up in his arms.

“Richard!” she squeaked, clapping one hand on top of her hat and threading her other around his shoulders. Her gloved fingers trailed through the long club of hair at his nape and he shuddered. She was a petite, sturdy bundle of femininity, and his eyes traced her profile as he approached the front door. High, arching russet brows and lashes framed her cornflower blue eyes. Her nose was long and straight, and dusted with a sprinkling of freckles.

“Can you reach the door for me?” he asked, leaning close, his mouth close to her ear. She turned her head, wide blue eyes meeting his before she nodded and reached down to turn the knob. He nudged the door open with his toe and walked into the foyer, noticing the pretty posy of flowers that Gwen, the cleaning girl he’d had helping him around the house since Joan passed, had left in the centre of the parlour table. “Welcome home, Helen, at least for the next few weeks,” he murmured. He set her down on her feet and drew her close to kiss her.

She sighed against his lips, and her hands slipped up his chest to link behind his neck. His arms tightened around her waist, drawing her up on her tiptoes as he deepened the kiss. He nipped her bottom lip, listening to her squeak in surprise and he pulled back, happy to see the corners of her lips tipping up into a smile.

“Thank you, Richard.” Her hands rested against his chest once again, small and capable encased in her pretty tan gloves. “Now go see to Glenn, quickly,” she encouraged. “I will see you when you return. And be gentle with him.” Richard nodded and turned to head towards the barn.

He hopped back into the wagon and slapped the reins on Sheila’s hindquarters, steering her towards the barn. He’d given serious consideration to having his son stay with his cousins for a few days, to give him and his new wife a chance to have some time alone to adjust to their new relationship, but decided against it for fear Glenn would think he was in some way turning from him and his memory of his mother in favour for Helen’s companionship. The three of them would be in very close proximity for the next several months, and there was no time for a gradual acclimatization for any of them.

He got down from the wagon and was walking up to Sheila to uncouple her from the harness when he saw Glenn come out from the barn, his face blotchy from crying. The grey eyes so very like his mother’s were bloodshot, but held more contrition than the searing hatred they’d held not more than a quarter hour before. Despite this, the boy’s ugly words still rang loud in Richard’s memory, and it made him set his jaw.

“Father,” Glenn murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as his fingers unbuckled the horse’s harness on the far side.

“Glenn,” Richard said shortly, undoing the shiny brass hardware on Sheila’s near side.

“Da, I’m sorry,” his son choked, his voice catching at the end of his apology.

Richard raised his eyes to see the boy’s bottom lip caught between his teeth. “While I am in agreement that you owe me an apology for shaming me with your words, the person to whom you need to beg for forgiveness is in our home, alone, right at this moment.” He stopped his labours and walked around the front of the horse to grasp Glenn by the shoulder. “Why in God’s name would you ever think saying something like that to anyone, let alone the woman with whom I’ve chosen to share my life?”

A sob left his son’s throat and he leaned against Richard’s chest, his arms wrapping around his waist. Richard pulled him close, and let him cry. After a time, Glenn’s weeping calmed to the occasional sniffle and Richard felt it was time to discuss the situation. “Glenn, a ghràdh,” he murmured in the lad’s ear before turning them to stand against the side of the wagon, “come now, tell me why you said the things you did.”

Glenn took the handkerchief his father offered, mopped at his eyes and blew his nose. “It’s as if you want her to replace Mam,” he confessed, his voice hoarse, but straightforward. Richard smiled; his son had always been the blunt, straightforward type, ever since he was a wee bairn.

“Son, I didn’t marry Helen to replace your mother, and that is a thought that never once crossed my mind,” he stated. “No one can take the place of your mother in your heart. She was so proud of you, Glenn, and loved you so.” He paused, remembering the day that she died, felt his own throat grow tight. “Her last words to me were about you.”

“They were?” Glenn’s head lifted sharply, the look of shock in his eyes nearly a blow to Richard’s gut. “What did she say?”

He told the boy, picturing her face as she’d whispered the words, sweat soaked and so very pale. _“See me through our lad, Richard. I’ll never be far from you if you see me through him. I love you.”_

Two more tears tracked their way down Glenn’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Dinna ken,” Richard sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “She said many things in those last moments. Perhaps I was hoarding the words to myself, to give _me_ comfort with her absence from my life.” He looked down in his child’s eyes and stroked his cheek, wiping away the tears. “But I see the error of my ways, son. She left both of us that day, and I should have given you the words she said.”

They were both silent for a time. Richard turned to finish unburdening their horse and walked her to her stall and had begun to brush her down when Glenn broke the silence with a cough. “Da?”

“Hmmm?”

“Why did you marry Miss Helen then? If not to replace Mam?”

Richard stopped brushing and looked at his son. “Because it was something I intended to do someday. Your Uncle Arthur’s letter simply expedited things.” He looked at his son’s incredulous expression. “Your mother said other, private things to me the day she died, first and foremost of which was her desire for me to promise not to spend the rest of my life alone.”

“It was?” Glenn spluttered, gawping up at his father.

Richard nodded. “I want you to give Helen a chance, son.” He turned and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I don’t expect you to love her as if she were a mother figure to you, but I do require you to respect her. First and foremost, that she is my wife now. She’s made a vow to me today, to be my helpmate and partner in this world until we are parted by death.” He paused and looked at the boy who, in a few years’ time, would be a man. “I’ve taught you to respect the elders in your life, and that includes both her and me. Is that understood?”

Glenn swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Second,” Richard continued, “she’s agreed to leave everything she has known in life to join us on this journey. It requires a great deal of courage for her to do this. Finally, she cares deeply for you, lad. She always has, and you know that, hmm?” He raised his brows and met his son’s eyes, holding his gaze until the boy blushed and nodded.

“Aye, I know she does,” Glenn admitted, “and I do like her, but…” He trailed off and then shook his head. “I am sorry for even believing either of you would…do what they said.”

“Thank you, son,” Richard acknowledged, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. He handed Glenn the brush. “Finish putting Sheila up for the night and get the carriage put away. Then you will join us for supper, at which time you will apologize to Helen for your unacceptable behaviour. Do you understand?”

Glenn swallowed before nodding. “Yes, Da.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Richard sighed heavily as he leaned against the closing door. _What to do about Glenn,_ he wondered to himself. He thought the conversation he’d had with the boy had gone quite well, but he wondered how long it would be before the stubborn streak reared its ugly head. Richard was well acquainted with it, considering the lad had inherited it from him. He hoped Helen would be able to endure stony glances and petulance for some time, but he’d been heartened to hear the boy acknowledge that he knew she cared for him, and deeply. That would go a long way towards easing what Richard knew would be a time of tension in the MacGowan home.

He was shrugging out of his suit coat when a delectable fragrance teased his nostrils. Something was roasting in the stove and it made his stomach growl loudly, despite the wedding tea they’d had a few hours before. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply before smiling and hurriedly removed the garment and laid it across the back of the settee. “Helen?” he called, walking into the kitchen to find his new wife standing at the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand. She turned and grinned at him, her cheeks pink from the heat of the stove. “What are you doing, hen?”

“Fixing us something for supper,” she said contentedly, tapping the spoon on the side of the pot and moving it to a back burner, a towel carefully protecting her hand. “Gwen had a roast chicken with carrots and potatoes started for us, and I put together a compote to have over scones for pudding.”

“Och.” Richard’s mouth had filled with saliva as soon as she’d said the words ‘roast chicken’. “And compote, too?” he asked, standing next to her and peering into the pot. “What kind of fruit did you use?”

“Apples, some of the strawberries I found in the patch next to the kitchen door.” She looked up and smiled at him. “They’re your favourite, aren’t they, Richard?”

He nodded. “My very favourite.” The tip of his tongue came out to lick the corner of his mouth and sniffed the fragrant steam rising from the pot. “Can I have a taste?”

“’Tis too hot, Richard!” she giggled. She gave his ribs a poke and arched a brow at him. “You’ll burn your tongue.” She bent to pull out the roasting pan from the oven and set it next to the pot. “I hope you don’t mind that I went ahead and finished supper,” she wondered, pouring the cooked fruit into a serving bowl to cool.

“No, not at all,” he beamed, “I want you to make yourself at home.”

She picked up the serving utensils and expertly moved the chicken and vegetables onto the serving platter she had readied. “Well, I figured if someone didn’t start the meal we wouldn’t eat until well after bedtime.” Her eyes shot up to his and her face flamed red. “Oh…I dinna mean—”

He took the serving fork out of her hand and set it down before he slipped his arms around her waist. “Dinna fash yourself, lass, I ken your meaning,” he purred, brushing her lips with his. Her hand stroked his cheek and she shuddered and sighed against his mouth. He deepened the kiss, touching her tongue once again with his own for an instant before he lifted his head. “The compote tastes lovely.” He licked his lips and captured the last of the apple and berry juice that had clung to hers. Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hands, failing to cover the pretty dimples that winked to life in her cheeks. He gave her a squeeze and nodded at the plates and silver she had stacked on the sideboard. “Can I set the table for you?” He thought that would give her some time to compose herself.

“Yes, thank you, Richard,” she sighed, flustered and fluttering about the stove. “We’re almost ready to serve now. I just need to finish the gravy for the chicken.”

They were silent as they worked, and he found himself enjoying this companionable silence they shared. He smiled as he laid the third plate down, reminded once again of the change that had happened in his life mere hours ago, but turned when she cleared her throat. “So, Glenn is joining us?”

He nodded, setting the silver down at each place setting. “He will.” Richard paused, then finished setting the table to look at her, standing still no more than five feet from him, her fingers twisting nervously in her apron. “He is to apologize to you for his behaviour.”

“Richard,” she clucked, “he’s struggling, I understand.”

“He had no business saying the things he said to you,” he said firmly, moving to stand next to her. He touched her upper arm and rubbed his thumb against it. “He thought I’d married you to replace his mother.”

Helen swallowed. “I’ll never replace Joan.”

“That’s what I told him,” he agreed. He noticed a shadow cross her expression. “Helen?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said, turning to whisk the gravy and nodded at the platter. “Please put the chicken on the table and call the boy in for supper, Richard.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Good night, a ghràdh,” Richard said, touching his son on his shoulder, “and thank you for your apology to Helen.”

Glenn lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, Da. Good night.”

Richard turned as the door closed and walked towards the master bedroom. He’d helped Helen upstairs with her trunk as soon as they’d finished supper, and had agreed to do the washing up so that she could get settled into her new room. It had also given him the opportunity to do something simple, allowing him time to gather his nerves for what was to come between them.

He wondered what her expectations were for their first night together as a married couple. Was she nervous? Was she eager? Her response to his kisses had made his pulse race faster than it had done in many months. He freely admitted the last few days had found him more than a little keen for the more physical side of marriage. He knew Helen had been sheltered from much in life, and – to his knowledge – had never had a suitor. _More fools they_ , he thought to himself. He also remembered enough about the first time he and Joan had made love that he knew he would have to be gentle, patient, and loving.

He stopped in front of the door and, taking a deep breath, knocked. “Helen? May I come in?” He heard nothing from inside the room and was about to knock again when the door opened and she stood before him. “Oh, Helen.”

Her deep auburn hair was unbound, thick, luxuriant and waving down to the small of her back. Her eyes were dark, like the skies at midnight, and wide with nervousness. She wore a full, white nightrail, embroidered with what appeared to be cherry blossoms around the collar. He looked down and saw her bare feet for the first time. They were pretty, petite and when she noticed his perusal of them, curled up her toes. He laughed softly, stepping into the room and capturing her shoulders in his hands. “You’re a lovely lass, hen.”

“Oh, Richard,” she whispered, her cheeks blazing red. “I’m not.”

“You are to me, my own,” he assured, stepping close and kissing her. This was not a gentle buss, or a teasing taste, but the kiss of a man desiring a woman. He swallowed the shocked gasp she made and sampled her mouth with the same delirious delight he’d done with the scones they’d had for pudding. She shivered against him, leaning in to press her body to his for the first time. The softness of her breasts, full and womanly, felt marvellous against his chest and his cock tightened the fit of his trousers, making him wish he were wearing a kilt.

Or nothing, for that matter.

“Richie,” she whispered against his lips, her hands cupping his cheeks before she stood back from him, eyes sparkling up at him. “Oh, it’s lovely kissing you.”

“You took the words straight from my mouth,” he chuckled and drew her close to him once again, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “Richie.” He smiled against her temple before tilting his head to look at her. “I like that.” Her arms tightened around his waist. “And I like the way you fit against me. The top of your head only comes up to my chin.”

She leaned back to smile up into his face. “’Tis rather cozy.” She cuddled against him once again before releasing him and walking over to the hearth. “I like the room, Richard,” she said softly, tracing her finger along the carving on the mantle. “It’s homey and warm, and has such history.” She stopped and turned, the expression on her face one of concern. “Will you not miss this? Your family has been here for generations, going as far back as the sixteenth century, isn’t that right?”

He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, wondering how in the world she could know what he was thinking and feeling at that moment. He’d had an image flash before him of how life could be for them here in Scotland, and it could be a good life. He opened his eyes to discover the fire in the hearth had silhouetted her figure through her nightrail, bringing his initial impressions about her body into bold relief. “Aye,” he admitted, crossing the room to cup her cheek, praying she hadn’t noticed the evidence of his arousal. Not yet. “But it’s the best thing for us to do, for our future, for Glenn’s. And I promise you both, I’ll build a home for us, one we can be happy in, for us and any children that might come.”

He watched as colour bloomed on her cheeks. “Richard,” she whispered, “about…well, about what is meant to happen tonight.”

A deep breath whistled through his nostrils, her words driving more blood to his cock, if that were possible. “Helen, if you need more time, we can wait,” he offered, hoping he was able to keep any sign of disappointment off of his face.

“No,” she stated, shaking her head. Her hands gripped his forearms. “I just wanted to say that I know what is expected of me, and I am prepared to submit to your needs.”

He blinked at her. “I dinna want you to feel you need to submit to _anything_ when it comes to this, hen,” he countered. He stepped closer, pulling her tight against him and she gasped when she became aware of his arousal. Her eyes flashed up to his. “Aye, lass, I want you, very badly. And I know that I need to have a care, because you’ve not known a man before. And I admit that the prospect of having you tonight fills me with desire. But the final decision on if it happens tonight or later is yours.”

She swallowed audibly, her eyes fixed on his. “Aye, Richie, I’ll lie with you tonight.”

“Helen,” he breathed, gathering her in his arms and kissing her with everything he’d held within him, showing her a man’s need for a woman. His tongue snaked into her mouth at her gasp, caressing her own, tasting and savouring her lips. She shuddered and moaned, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come up from the soles of her feet. She rose on tiptoe, drawing his head down to hers, her fingers brushing his cheeks and neck before moving down and across his chest.

He groaned when she brushed against his hardened nipples and she drew back. “Just like mine,” she marvelled, a smile of delight teasing the corners of her mouth.

“Oh God,” he muttered before picking her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed. He laid her down and sat on the edge, wrenching his boots from his feet before joining her, gathering her against him and losing himself in the delight of her mouth. Her small hands reached around him to touch his back for the first time and he slid his lips from hers to trace their way along her throat. Throatier, breathy moans and sighs tickled his ears and his knee slid between her legs.

“Richie…Oh!” she exclaimed as hips pressed his cock along her outer hip. Her knees clamped around his leg and she raised shocked eyes to his. “What of the lights?”

“I wish to see you, Helen,” Richard rasped as he nibbled his way up to her ear. “Can we please, just a lamp or two?” She nodded tentatively, and he saw the first glimmer of fear appear in her eyes. “It’s alright, I promise. Get under the covers, mo muirnín, and I’ll tend to them.” She nodded and scrambled her way into the bedclothes as he snuffed out the candles on the mantel, drawing up the linens up to her chin. He laughed softly and winked as he dimmed the oil lamp on the small table between the matching armchairs nearest the fire, then turned his back to undress. After all, he needn’t immediately scare the poor lass into a faint with his bulk.

He was well aware at how large he was. It was one of the reasons he’d been successful at his trade. One had to be strong to bend and sculpt iron every day. However, it was something he’d had to be aware of from the time he was nearing manhood. He knew his physical stature could intimidate many men, so he tried to be particularly mindful around women. His first wife had been tall, willowy and quite fragile so he’d always treated her with delicacy. Helen’s shorter stature worried him, if he were being truthful with himself. Would she be terrified of this large, hirsute man invading her bed?

He stripped off his shirt then, taking a deep breath, unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall to the floor. He thanked the good Lord for having had the sense to put on a pair of drawers that morning. He picked up his trousers and laid them on the armchair before turning to face her. “So, are you preparing to run off screaming into the night quite yet, lass?” he half-jokingly quipped.

“Richie,” she murmured. She sat in stunned amazement, the grip she’d had on the sheets slackening until they puddled in her lap. She rose to her knees, snagging the hem of her nightrail. The neckline slipped, baring the creamy upper crest of her right breast and shoulder. His eyes fell to the shadow of her cleavage and he took two steps forward to reach his hand to stroke her cheek.

“Helen,” he rasped, as she slowly swept her hand across the broad expanse of his chest, her fingers tracing through the hair that covered it, humming with delight at the soft rasp her motions made against his flesh.

“So warm,” she marvelled, raising her eyes to meet his before appearing to think twice and drawing her hand back to rest against her throat. “I’m sorry, Richard, I dinna mean to.”

“Dinna mean to what, hen? Touch me?” He held her shoulders, his fingers flexing against her soft flesh. He took her hand and placed it back on his chest. “You may do so whenever you wish. ‘Tis your right, now.” She blushed and lowered her eyes. He drew her against him and kissed her. His hands circled her waist to caress her lower back and the crest of her buttocks. She mewled against his mouth, her hands pressed to his chest as he kissed her lips, nose and jaw before moving along the column of her neck. He froze when he finally touched her breast, its fullness filling his large hand. He looked down, the edge of its deep rose peak exposed by their movement and lowered his head, pulling the edge of the neckline aside to taste and suckle, the nipple pearling beautifully against his tongue. He hummed and murmured his pleasure against her skin, grazing her with his teeth, and smiling at the whimper he heard come from her.

His mouth left her breast and he shifted up to capture her startled lips with his, grinding his cock against her before lifting his head to meet her eyes. They were black with a mixture of desire, fear, and confusion. “Oh, lass, dinna worry,” he sighed against her ear, “just feel.” He kissed her again, pleased when her hands came up to stroke his cheeks and pull him close, her fingers reaching back to the club of his hair.

She fingered the ribbon he’d used that morning. “May I, Richie?”

“Please,” he nearly panted against her ear and groaned as she freed his hair and plunged her fingers into its length, her nails hissing along his scalp. He reached down to ease the hem of her nightrail up her legs and she broke their kiss, her face a study of anxiety. “Helen, I want to see you. Please? Let me?”

She hesitated, as if steeling herself, and then nodded. “Aye, yes, Richard,” she whispered, shifting to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. She stood a moment, her back turned towards him, and he nearly spoke again in encouragement when her fingers began to draw up the material. Firm and shapely thighs, and then the most perfect hips and buttocks he’d ever seen. Fleshy and smooth, with dimples he ached to kiss. He held his tongue as her waist gracefully curved up to her breasts, the outer edge just visible as she brought the garment up and over her head. She drew her long hair over shoulders that were creamy and looked as soft as velvet. She had a series of four moles – or freckles, he could not tell – on her ribs, just underneath the lower curve of her left breast and his mouth watered.

Oh, he would love to taste every inch of her skin if she’d let him. “Helen, you are such a bonny lass.” She looked over her shoulder, her cheeks a deep rose. “My bonny lass.”

Her lips twitched into a shy smile. “Yes, Richie,” she agreed softly and turned. And he forgot how to breathe. She’d hidden herself behind the silken strands of her hair. He caught glimpses of her breasts, the nipples peeking through to tease him. He never would have guessed they would have been as full as they were, her stays doing such a good job of concealing them. She held her hands in front of her womanhood, but he could see the edges of the deep ginger curls that shielded her. He slowly walked around the bed to join her, touching her shoulder to turn her to face him. She did, her eyes staring down at her toes.

“A stór,” he murmured, cupping her cheeks to lift her face to his and kissed her, gently, slowly. For she truly was a treasure, now held in his arms, the heat of her skin against him, the shape of her body tight against him as they lost themselves in lips and teeth and tongues. “So very beautiful, Ellie.”

She leaned back to look up at him, her hands lazily brushing his chest, pleasure making her face shine. “Ellie.” She nodded, brushing a kiss along his jaw and nuzzling her nose and lips against his neck, the simple caress making his knees weak. “For here, when we’re like this, all right, Richie?”

“Aye,” he agreed, his hands moving to cup and caress her buttocks, lifting her against his cock, which nearly screamed with need. Her eyes flew to his. “I must have you, Ellie. Now, a chuisle. Please.”

She swallowed and nodded. He moved against her involuntarily, his hips thrusting hard against her, and she gasped. “I-I should like to see you,” she whispered. “I should like to know, ye ken?”

“Aye, I do,” he nodded, releasing her. She quickly skittered under the bedclothes and drew them up, clamping them under her armpits. He let out a dry chuckle that eased some of the almost unbearable tension in the room and he was pleased to see her smile in return. “Try not to be frightened, lass. Please?” She nodded, her brow furrowing in spite of herself. He took a deep breath, loosened the tie at his waist, and then eased the garment down to the floor.

He heard her gasp before he could meet her eyes. “Richie!” she squeaked. “H-How?” He slipped under the bedclothes with her and drew her against him, the warmth of her skin a comfort. The scent of her came with her, the rosemary that had become a signature for her, and nearly drove him mad. Smoke from the hearth, roses from her soap that he’d noticed when he kissed her during the handfasting. There were apples from their pudding and the musk of her arousal that made him ache to taste it. _Too soon for that, much too soon,_ he thought to himself. He kissed her, easing her down onto her back, lying by her side, his hand running along her waist, hip and thigh before returning to her breast, firm and supple under his touch.

“Trust me, it’s all as it's meant to be, a chuisle,” he said, breathless with anticipation. “The first time is always…difficult, and if it becomes too much I promise I will stop.” He looked at her, fear clearly evident but determination also blazing within the midnight blue eyes. “Can I have you, lass?”

She nodded, biting her bottom lip. He brushed a kiss across mouth, her breast as his hand drifted down her stomach to touch her intimately. She gasped sharply, her body lurching against his caress. His fingers slipped through silken hair, and between the thick outer lips of her sex to find her drenched with her body’s dew. “I dinna know what’s wrong, Richie,” she rasped, embarrassment causing her to clutch at his hand and attempt to turn away from him.

“Nothing’s the matter, Ellie,” he encouraged, pressing her face with kisses. “It’s to ease the way for me, understand?” He slipped his hand deeper and stroked the prominent nub of flesh presenting itself, slick and hot, under his thumb. Her eyes widened before squeezing shut, a deep moan coming from her throat. “That’s it, Ellie, a ghràdh,” he groaned. He continued to stroke her, delighted by her response. His longest finger tested her quim, felt it quiver under his caress, and slipped inside. He encountered the thin shield of her maidenhead and backed away before adding a second finger within her.

Her hips thrust against him and a flush climbed up the crests of her breasts to her throat. “Come for me, lass, don’t be afraid,” he gasped, shifting his body between her legs as she stiffened, and flew apart. Her quim squeezed tight against his fingers and he could wait no longer. He leaned in, grabbing his cock and guiding it to her still twitching flesh. “A moment of pain, dearest girl. I’m sorry.” Her eyes flew open and widened, unfocused from her climax as his hips flexed and the broad head of his cock slid into her body.

Instinct took over for Richard as he thrust against her, rending her flesh. He captured her sob with his mouth, easing his full weight upon her, wondering if it was too much for this petite darling of a girl, and held still, trembling as he tried to stem the need that coiled within him, so near the breaking point. He kissed her, brushing the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, murmuring apologies until her weeping slowed. “Ellie, am I too heavy, too much for you?” he asked, his own voice hoarse with emotion. “Do you want me to stop,”

She shook her head. “N-No, Richie, I’ll see this through,” she said, face brave through her tears.

“A chuisle,” he whispered, kissing her deeply once more before giving himself over to his need. He withdrew slightly and pressed forward, sinking deeper within her, repeating this once more until he was fully seated. The heat and tightness of her was nearly too much for him to bear and he groaned as his hips found his rhythm. He lowered his head to rest in the curve of her shoulder as he moved within her. Words of love in the Gaelic spilled from his lips and he wondered distantly if she understood what he said. He felt her move under him, her legs rising to wrap around his waist, her heels tapping rhythmically against his buttocks with each thrust.

Tentative gasps and moans came from her, her voice a deep contralto that enveloped him, urging him forward, his movements growing more frantic as he felt his end approach. “A stór,” he rasped as nerves tightened and burned along his inner thighs and lower back and the first pulse of semen was flung from him. He stilled, shuddering hard as he filled her with his seed, his toes curling against the mattress, his hand gripping her hip hard, stilling her movements as he arched over her until spent.

Several moments passed before he was able to lift his head to look at her. Her face was streaked with tears, and her bottom lip was swollen, tooth marks clearly visible along its edge. But her eyes held his, gentled as she blinked slowly. The corner of her mouth twitched and he shivered as her hand made its way down his back in a caress. “How indeed,” she said, closing her eyes and kissing him.

He wrapped her in his arms and turned so that they lay on their sides, their bodies still linked. “Are you all right, Ellie?” he asked, stroking her hair and back.

“I think so,” she said, wincing a little as she eased her right leg from around his waist.

“Dammit, I’ve hurt you badly, haven’t I?” he asked, shifting his body to withdraw completely from her and she whimpered. “Oh Ellie, I was a ham-fisted, impatient arse with you and I’m sorry for it.” He tucked her against him and kissed her brow. “Can you forgive me?”

She rose up pressed a kiss to his chest, right above his heart. “There’s nothing to forgive, Richie,” she said directly. “It was to be expected, you even said so, yes?” He nodded sadly. “And, should you wish to do it again, it will ease with time.” The mere mention of attempting it once again made his softened cock twitch against balls that still ached from moments before. _You will_ not _, you rutting hound,_ he thought to himself, _not for several days_. She looked at him. “Do you wish to do it again?” she asked, her eyes widening at the prospect.

“No—I mean yes, well…shite,” he stammered and bumbled “not right at this minute, hen.” He brushed her lips with his, running his thumb across her poor bottom lip. “Was it all bad?”

She blinked up at him then blushed. “N-No, Richie, not all bad.” She squirmed. “But I would like to wash if I could.”

“Of course,” he said, reaching down onto the floor where her rumpled nightrail rested next to his drawers. . As he moved, the scent of their lovemaking filled the air, musky with hints of copper and iron. _Blood_ , he thought to himself, and prayed he hadn’t hurt her too badly. He handed it to her gazed at the tousled beauty he now had the pleasure of calling wife, and thanked God for it. He touched her hand, raised it to his lips to kiss. “I am almost certain you will find some blood, Ellie, so don’t be frightened.”

She shook her head, swallowing. “I won’t be.” She pulled the nightrail over her head and down to her waist before leaning over to kiss him. “I’ll be back in a moment. Thank you, Richie.”

He cupped her cheek and poured all of what he couldn’t say to her into his kiss. “’Tis I that should be thanking you, Ellie, a ghràdh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for those of you who have left your kudos and comments on our story about Helen and Richard. This makes TWO wedding night scenes I've written in so many weeks and I'm telling you, this one was even more of a challenge than the LAST one. You'll see what I mean when Rainpuddle13 puts the next chapter up. :-)
> 
> Some translation of some of the Gaelic are below. Many thanks to Rainpuddle13 for doing the research for me!
> 
> A chuisle: pulse  
> A ghràdh: dear, often used in combination with the name of your loved one, e.g. Ellie, a ghràdh  
> A stór: treasure 
> 
> Others to come:
> 
> Mo leannan. (ma len-on) My beloved.  
> Mo ghràdh. (ma rah) My love.  
> Tha gràdh agam ort. (ha rah a-gum ort) I love you. The literal translation is, ‘I have love on you.’  
> A ghrá = "love" (as in "hello love!")   
> Mo chroí = "my heart"   
> A chuisle mo chroí = "pulse of my heart"   
> Mo muirnín= "my darling"   
> A leanbh = "little one" or "baby"   
> A ghrá geal="beloved"


	5. Shortcomings

Helen spent the morning sorting through several trunks that had been stored in the spare bedroom. It was depressing work, deciding what should be given away, what could possibly be sold, and what was of no use to anyone. The hardest was the trunk full of things for the child that wasn’t meant to be. She hated to dispose of the all the delicately crocheted blankets and wee smocks that had been made with such loving care, but none of was needed in the immediate future.

There was nothing she wanted more than to be a mother, and she’d thought it would never be a possibility for her until she found herself married nearly two weeks ago. Only time and circumstance were against her yet again. They were facing at least a year of rough and dangerous travel before they managed to make their way to Richard’s brother in Tenino. It would be foolish to bring a child into such uncertainty. Not that she was likely to conceive anyway since her courses were unpredictable at the best of times and practically non-existent in times of stress. She just had to hope that it would not be too late to try, once they finally got settled in their new home. She thanked the good Lord that Richard already had a son so she would not fail him on that front at least.

“Oooh,” she breathed, startled when she looked up to find Glenn glaring at her from the doorway. “I didn’t hear you come in from your lessons.” It must be nearly time for their midday meal, and Richard was sure to be hungry. 

His eyes flashed from hers to the tiny smock in her hand. “My mam made those!” he cried, very nearly on the verge of tears.

“I know,” Helen said calmly, not wanting to further upset him. “They’re very lovely. She had a rare hand it when it came to needlework.” It’d been a taxing time as they slowly became accustomed to one another. She was exhausted, if truth be told. Sleep had been most elusive since she’d come to live at the MacGown cottage. 

He sobered a bit at her words. “What are you going to do with all of it?”

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly, figuring it was best to just meet him head on. “I’ve no need for baby things. So I thought I’d discuss it with your father when he comes in.”

Glenn took a step into the room to look at her with a thoughtful expression, and she gave him a gentle smile. She’d learned quickly that he was a very direct child when he wanted to be, but he was also sensitive. He hadn’t quite lost the vestiges of childhood as evidenced by his plump cheeks. It wouldn’t be much longer before he shot up like a sapling in a warm spring. She could see it already in the length of his legs. Glenn would grow to be tall like his father, looking just like Richard as well, save his eyes, they were the only thing of his mother she could see in him.

“I was about your age when my mam died,” she found herself telling him without knowing why. She rarely spoke of her mother. Her death seemed like a lifetime ago.

“You were?” he asked, seemingly interested, and took a seat on the unopened trunk across from her.

“Aye.” 

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, really. We were in the garden pulling weeds. She was very happy and chattering away about her flowers. Then she suddenly she stopped. She asked for my father and I ran to get him. He’d been in the stables with the horses. She was lying dead her amongst her roses by the time he found her.”

“Oh,” Glenn said, his eyes shimmering with tears. “Do you miss her?”

“Everyday. She was my mother,” Helen answered with honesty. She went about refolding a pile of clouts, knowing just who in the village could make use of them.

“Still?”

She looked up at him then, blue eyes meeting watery grey. “Still.”

"It's been forever."

"It just seems that way."

Glenn watched her sort through a few other things, and she was well aware that he was thinking through their conversation. “Why haven’t you married before?” he asked after several minutes of silence.

“No one’s ever asked me,” she answered, frowning as she tried to push down all the feelings of being unworthy of love that had always haunted her. “At least not until your father did.” 

“Why not?” he continued to prod. She wasn't sure if he was just being inquisitive or not.

“Any number of reasons, I suppose.” She busied herself sorting the delicately embroidered smocks by color just to have something to do. 

He gave her the once over again. "What’s wrong with you then?”

She drew in a sharp breath as his words felt like a knife in her heart. Short, plump, plain, dull, ordinary, old - all words she had ascribed to her numerous shortcomings. Helen was quite aware she was no one’s prize catch. Speaking about her insecurities with her new stepson was almost more than she could bear. “My father took ill, and I cared for him for years. I mourned his passing for a very long time,” was all she told him.

“Oh.” Glenn toed the edge of the braided rag rug, all of the color gone from his cheeks. 

“By the time I was ready to face the world again, I was considered too old for marriage by many,” she managed to say with only a little hitch in her throat. 

The boy scrunched up his nose as he looked her up and down. “You don’t look old.” 

“I’ll be twenty-four my next birthday,” Helen admitted, the knot in the pit of her stomach twisting a little when his eyes widened. She tried not to take it too much to heart. All adults seemed old to someone who was just eleven, or so she tried to tell herself. 

“Da isn’t fussed about your age,” Glenn observed.

“He’s known me my entire life.”

“Really?”

“Oh, aye.”

“That’s a really long time!”

“I remember when you were born,” she said quickly to steer Glenn away from the touchy subject of her age. “You were a precious wee thing. Your mam was so proud of you.”

“She was?” Glenn said, perking up a little at the mention of his mother.

“Very,” she answered, smiling at the happy memories as they came flooding back, “I was young, not much older than you when my brother brought me over to visit shortly after you were born. Your mam had in me for tea when she didn't have to."

“She did?” he urged.

"Mrs Kincaid served us in the parlour."

His nose wrinkled. "She was mean, Mrs Kincaid."

"I prefer the word stern," she agreed with a giggle. "She was very displeased your mother allowed me to hold you, but Joan paid the woman no mind."

"She did?"

Helen’s heart nearly broke at his eagerness to hear about his mother. He didn’t need to know how frail she looked, how tired she was, or how much his birth had taken from her. “Yes, and she didn’t have to, but she was always very kind to me, your mam. I liked her very much.” She could tell he was at a loss for words, and she didn’t want to risk upsetting him. They’d settled into a fragile peace of sorts only recently. “You have her eyes, bright and clear grey.”

“That’s what Da says,” Glenn said with a wobbly smile before turning serious again. “He doesn’t talk about her much.”

“He’s still grieving for her,” she assured him. “I’m sure he will in time when it’s not so hard for him. Your father loved your mother.”

Glenn didn’t seem convinced no matter what she said. “He married you.”

“Aye, he did,” she drew in a deep breath while trying to come up with the right words that would not upset him, “but not because he loves me. Your father knew he would need help caring for you on the long trip to your uncle. A wife can do things a father can't. Our marriage is a practical one."

“We’ve been fine without you.” He crossed his arms, regarding her stonily, and she feared she’d lost him. “We don’t need you.”

She folded the last smock in her lap, and tried not to let the hurt of his words show on her face. He was scared of the unknown just as much as she was. “Maybe not here, but in America things will be different. We’ll be far away from anything and anyone for a very long time once we start out on the trail. You’ll both need help.”

“Do you love my da?” he demanded, almost daring her to speak the truth she feared he could see plainly.

“I care for him, yes,” Helen answered carefully, her heart tripping over the thought of Richard ever returning her love for him. “If I can bring some comfort and companionship to his life, then it’s enough. Your father did me a great service by marrying me.”

Glenn narrowed his gaze. “He did?”

Helen nodded, and said, “I don’t have to go live with a family I do not know only to be turned out when the children no longer need me.”

“Why would they do that?” he asked warily, his dark brows furrowing.

“A governess is no longer needed when the children are grown,” she explained. 

Glenn frowned. “What would happen then?”

“I’d have to try to find another family, and hoped that they liked me,” she answered honestly. 

“What would happen if you didn’t find another family?”

“I don’t know.”

“That sounds scary.”

Helen hadn't given much thought to just how perilous her situation truly was before her marriage. “It is very scary."

"Then why do it?" Glenn asked, brows drawn down to match his grim frown.

"Unmarried ladies without male relations have little options. Only I don’t have that worry about that now. I like you and your da both verra much, and being able to take care of you makes me happy.”

“Oh.”

"I would like for us to be friends. Do you think we can try?" She had no idea how Glenn would react to her request, but she had to try at least for everyone's sake. “It would please your father I think.”

“I’m never going to call you mam,” he stated unequivocally.

She started placing the sorted stacks of baby clothing into a basket, more than aware he just set forth a challenge to see where he stood with her. “I would never ask you to do that. You can just call me Helen. Can you live with that?”

He took several deep breaths before he dropped his arms to his side and relaxed. “I think so.”

“Good.” She gave him a little nod, and stood up from where she’d been sitting on the floor to brush out her skirts. Her arms ached to gather the boy in her arms and assure him everything would be alright, but knew it would be too much for him right now. She had nothing but time. “You may go wash your face and hands while I see about setting the table. Richard should be in shortly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Glenn responded with a nod of his own before scurrying off to do as she asked.

~*~*~*~

“A letter arrived for you. It’s there on the table,” Helen said as Richard dropped into his chair in front of the fireplace in the parlour. He’d taken the time to bathe and change into clean clothes after coming in from work for the day, a fact she greatly appreciated. There was a glass of whisky and a small plate of nibbles awaiting him on the table next to his chair. It had become their custom to perform this nightly ritual when he’d come in from the shop, and before dinner was served.

"Artie." He picked up the battered envelope, tearing into it. “Probably wanting to know if we’re coming or not. Always impatient, my brother.”

“I remember," Helen agreed. Arthur MacGowan held a special place in her heart. Warm, kind, with a wicked sense of humor, he was always teasing her and making her laugh. Handsome in his own right, but different from Richard: just as tall, but not as broad across the shoulders; his wavy ruddy hair trimmed short, his cheeks clean shaven. Arthur loved to smile, but could be just as serious as his older brother when the need arose. Her father had once thought she and Arthur were well suited enough to consider a match between them, but her brother William had thought otherwise and the matter had been dropped without further comment.

She looked up at her husband, mouth firmly set to keep from frowning. Helen was sure Arthur was going to be in for quite a surprise when his brother turned up with a much different wife. “Will you be writing him back to let him know we're coming?” she asked.

“We’ll probably arrive on the same train as the letter if we manage to leave in a few weeks,” Richard answered, eyes still roaming over the sheaves of paper. "I wrote him several weeks ago to let him know I was seriously contemplating his offer, but I had other things to consider first before I could make a final decision."

She nodded, knowing she was that one of those other things he had to sort out before he could quit Scotland. He didn't seem to notice when she took a seat in the more delicate chair next to his and picked up the bit of crocheting she'd been working on from the basket to occupy her eyes and her hands. "He'll know about Joan then?" Helen asked, hating to broach the subject, but it had to be done for her peace of mind.

"Aye," Richard said softly, finally looking up. "I wrote to him shortly afterward. He should've received it by now." 

"He'll be surprised you've married again so soon."

"Artie knows Glenn is still in need of a mother. It would've been the practical thing to do."

Richard had never made a secret of his reasons for marrying her, and she'd accepted knowing full and well she'd spend the rest of her life living with the ghost of his first wife. It still didn't make the words any easier to hear, and she could not get the things her aunt had warned her about out of her head. It was difficult to reconcile the man sitting next to her who only married her out of necessity and the one that doted on her like an adoring husband in private.

“Helen?” he called her name loudly, startling her from her thoughts. “Alright there, hen? You seemed lost in thought.”

“Yes, yes.” She could feel the heat flaming in her cheeks at being caught thinking about the feel of his hands, rough on her tender skin when he lost himself to the frenzy of pleasure. The physical aspects of her marriage were not nearly as distasteful as her aunt had led her to believe it would be, and Helen wasn’t quite sure what to think about that. Richard was gentle and attentive to her needs the few times they'd made love since their wedding night, and she found she enjoyed it more each time.

“Your cheeks are pink…” he said, leading her to fill in the rest.

She cleared her throat and rested the piece she was working on in her lap. “I had a lovely talk with Glenn this afternoon.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow at her abrupt change of subject, but she’d rather have died on the spot than said out loud what had actually been on her mind. “You did?” he asked carefully.

“Oh, aye," Helen answered. "We mostly spoke of his mother."

Richard sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’ll speak to him about it.”

“He grieves for her still.”

“I know he does.” Richard scrubbed a hand over his face.

“You should talk to him about her,” she urged, reaching across the small space to lay a hand on his muscular thigh and she tamped down the trill such an intimate gesture sent up her spine. “It would mean the world to him."

His hand covered hers. "I know I should, but the words just won't come."

"It was very difficult for my father too after my mother had passed. He loved her so," Helen said softly, tears brimming in her eyes at the unhappy memories of childhood. "I was Glenn's age.”

“I remember,” he confessed. 

Helen dared glance at him and found him watching her intently. “You do?”

“Aye, Wills was worried with you being so young without a mother.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I didn't understand then like I do now. William did his best for me during the time when Da couldn’t.”

“He did,” Richard said softly with a nod, “and again when your father passed. Your brother was a good man.”

She had to fight hard to keep the sob caught in her throat from breaking free, remembering that she wasn’t the only one affected deeply by William’s untimely death. Her husband had also lost his closest friend. “I promise you I will do my best for Glenn,” she vowed, her voice warbling a bit as a tear slipped down her cheek.

Richard looked at her with those unfathomable blue eyes of his, deep and dark, as he regarded her a few moments before tenderly lifting her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles, causing her breath to catch. “I know you will, Helen,” he said assuredly. 

Butterflies fluttered with anticipation in her stomach when he tugged her from the chair into his lap, kissing her properly once she was settled in his strong arms. Her hand went to cup his cheek as she lost herself to him, enjoying the crispness of his whiskers beneath her fingers, and she could feel a smile forming on his lips at the touch. 

It was enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> So, are you intrigued? Please let us know and thank you for taking the time out to give this fic a try. :-)


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